


Great Realisations

by Fayth82



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:23:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayth82/pseuds/Fayth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was one of life's great ironies that the day Molly decided to get over him and on with her life was the day Sherlock Holmes realised that he actually had feelings for her and it was high time he did something about them</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was one of life’s great ironies that the day that Molly Hooper decided to finally get over Sherlock Holmes and on with her life was the very day that Sherlock decided that he did, in fact, have tender feelings for the pathologist and it was high time he did something about them.

It was perhaps more heartbreakingly ironic that it was the same event which caused both parties to come to their respective realisations.

Having spent hours on her feet, at the morgue working, Molly had been bone tired and ready to collapse. Of course this was when our consulting detective made an appearance demanding that she help him with his experiment. Molly, for the first time ever, said no. Sherlock, not for the first time ever, told her that she had never looked lovelier, assuming that the tiny piece of artful flattery would get him what he wanted.

In that moment Molly, her body sore and aching, had taken one look at him and was certain that he hadn’t even seen her. He simply didn’t care that her hair was greasy and that she had bags under her eyes. He had probably seen the soup stains on her cardigan and the scars on her hands and ignored them- her- as unimportant.  She was not a person to him, merely a body that fetched him coffee and catered to his every whim. He didn’t see her, didn’t care about her and would certainly never love her. The Great Realisation that she was wasting her time, energy and life loving a man who would never return those feelings crushed what remained of her self-esteem and, after getting him his blasted coffee, she took herself off home vowing that she would never be his fool again. It was time to get over him and that was exactly what she planned to do.

Of course, for Sherlock, things had happened rather differently.

Having spent hours walking and running around London working on a case for Lestrade, Sherlock was highly buzzed, full of adrenaline, and ready to take on the world. He had several ideas of new directions he could go and there was only one person he trusted to help him. He hastened to St. Barts and to the morgue where he knew his favourite lab partner would still be working.

Molly had been packing up for the day when he had walked in. Sherlock had offered her the chance to help him solve a case and, for the first time that he could recall, she had turned him down, citing the fact she was tired and grimy and needed to go home and shower. He had recalled what she’d looked like when he had walked in. She had been deep in paperwork, her eyes shining in thought, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm on the computer. She had been biting her lower lip constructing sentences that explained her findings and solved the mystery of why her patient died. She was thorough and intelligent and methodical and he had told her that she had never looked lovelier to him.

She had stared at him then. Just stood and stared, without blushing and stammering or saying thank you. Her expression had been quite unreadable and Sherlock had been struck with just how pretty his pathologist was when she wasn’t a nervous wreck.  It wasn’t something that he usually noted and, as she went to get him coffee, he set his mind to work out why it was that the unfamiliar thought had crossed his mind.

He weighed up their acquaintance, their meetings and conversations. He thought about her appearance and his deductions regarding her and realised that she had featured in his thoughts more and more in the previous months. She had been someone who he trusted, someone on whom he could rely and someone who he viewed with affection. It wasn’t the sort of bemused affection that he held for John or even the protective affection he felt for Mrs. Hudson.

 It was softer. More visceral and certainly more physical.

As she had placed his coffee in front of him and wandered off, he had come to the Great Realisation that he actually had _feelings_ for Molly Hooper. Real, grown-up, manly feelings. He wanted to _do_ things with her _._  More than experiments. He’d quite like to kiss her at some point and maybe even sit with her on the sofa at Baker Street.  Extraordinary though it was, he wanted Molly in his life more permanently and with a greater degree of proximity. He had turned to tell her of this Great Realisation only to find that she had gone home.

After several moments of pouting he had decided that this was for the best. He needed time to plan how he would go from single to being in a relationship. He needed to research and prepare.

And so the two of them set about their mission; one to quell and the other to capture.

Sherlock began his quest by remarking, quite idly to John Watson, that last year’s Christmas party had gone quite well and maybe John should consider another.

Molly began her own journey by opening a bottle of wine, curling up with her cat and watching _He’s Just Not That Into You._

Both were quite satisfied with their initial steps towards their end goal. Their flatmates were equally pleased; John Watson because it showed that Sherlock was finally growing as a person, and Toby because he really liked having his tummy rubbed.

Molly planned and Sherlock plotted and both were determined to succeed. With the holidays rapidly approaching one of them was bound to disappointment.  But which one?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my Beta Velvetwhip

Molly stared down at Mr. Weston-Jones and poked at his heart with her scalpel. Thankfully this wasn’t illegal because he was already dead and she was getting paid to do it. The grey organ looked sad and somewhat lonely inside his chest cavity and she sighed.

“Too much cholesterol in your diet. Fond of bacon butties were you?” she asked him conversationally.  She didn’t expect an answer, and probably would have screamed and peed herself had he sat up and agreed with her. The dead didn’t tend to talk, which was a bonus really, because she didn’t imagine that having your insides exposed to the morgue air and your bowels evacuated over an autopsy table to be very conducive to pleasant conversation.

 She clicked on her recorder and began to detail the minute defects in his body which would explain his death. Her mind was filled with decomposition rates and internal scarring and she wasn’t paying attention to the sounds around her which was why she didn’t hear the door to her sanctuary open.

Sherlock stood inside watching the pathologist as she delicately carved the corpse on her table.

He had always thought that there was something elegant about the way that Molly Hooper held the slender scalpel in her tiny hands. Before his Great Realisation he had just assumed it was an appreciation for the fine craftsmanship of a fellow mystery-solver.  Of course now his imagination ran to thoughts of precisely what those dexterous digits could do.  He was uncovering quite the lascivious streak within himself. It was... fascinating.

John came up behind him forcing him to clear his throat and step into the room fully.

He expected that his pathologist would turn to him, her eyes bright and smile readily apparent. She would greet him breathlessly and offer him coffee. If he smiled at her, she would blush a rather becoming shade of pink and hurry off to do his bidding. Then, when she returned with his- frankly amazing- cup of coffee, she would brush her fingertips against his whilst handing him the mug and the blush would deepen.

Molly pulled away from the body and glanced over.

“Hello Molly,” John said as he edged around the room.

“Hi John, Sherlock,” she inclined her head and gave them an absent smile, motioning to her corpse. “I’ve nearly finished with Mr. Weston-Jones here.”

“Take your time,” John replied affably.

Sherlock waited for her to look over at him. He knew that she wouldn’t be able to resist for very long. In fact the longest she had been able to go without sneaking peeks at him was barely eight minutes. Her personal best had been eight minutes and thirty-three seconds and that had been whilst she was engaged in a very difficult centrifugal procedure.

A mere autopsy shouldn’t hold much interest for her and when she looked over she would see his very best smile. Sincere, soft and all for her.

Whenever she looked.

Any minute now.

 Molly gnawed her bottom lip as she separated the large and small intestine and weighed them out. She made a few comments into her recorder and disposed of the intestines.

She still hadn’t looked up.

Based on the evidence, it must be a very compelling autopsy and Sherlock felt his curiosity stir. He sauntered over, standing on the opposite side of the table, and peered into the exposed chest cavity.

He could see no perforations or lesions, no discolouration other than the usual post mortem rotting, and nothing even vaguely interesting about the body.

“Heart attack? Too much fatty tissue collecting around the heart. Boring.” He stepped back, waiting for her to look up and smile approvingly at his deduction.

“Yes, I came to that conclusion too,” she said, reaching over for her paperwork. “Still, his widow wants a thorough examination so I’ve had to examine all of his organs.”

“Waste of time.”

Molly shrugged one shoulder, still not looking up at him. “Not for her. She gets peace of mind.” She made one final note on the paperwork and pushed it aside. She stepped around the table, removing her latex gloves.

As she dropped them into the hazardous waste bin she finally looked up. At John.

Sherlock frowned.

It was harder than Molly thought to keep her attention locked on what she was doing and not on the delectable body of the man standing across from her. Sherlock would have to be wearing the purple shirt of sexiness, wouldn’t he? He would also have to have that ‘just showered’ scent coming off him.

He really was a bastard sometimes.

But that wasn’t going to deter her from her end goal. She was going to get over him and that meant becoming immune to his scent and his deep voice and his sexy way of walking... and talking... and breathing.

She wasn’t stupid enough to believe that she would ever become immune to the purple shirt of sexiness, because some things just defied explanation.

“So what can I do for you boys?” She took a deep breath, forcing her gaze not to stray to the consulting detective.

Better to stare at John Watson who, now that she was actually looking, was more than just a little cute himself. Huh. Didn’t expect that.

John breathed in deeply. “Um, Sherlock?”

“Right!” Sherlock strode into the centre of the room, like an actor on stage readying himself for his part, and clapped his hands together. “I need a spleen.”

It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare.

“Any particular type?” she asked, looking towards her storage lockers, trying to think of any spleens that were suitable.

“Male preferably, but as long as it’s healthy it really doesn’t matter.”

Molly nodded and headed towards her meticulously kept storage. She could see Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at her with a puzzled look on his face. No doubt wondering why she hadn’t fawned over him or offered him coffee yet. Hah!

“Have you done something different with your-”

“No.” She cut him off abruptly. “Male, early 40s?”

She could almost feel the confusion clouding the air as she stopped his pathetic attempts to compliment her in order to get what he wanted. She was done with his manipulations and she was taking steps to immunize herself against them from now on.

He stumbled over his next words. “W-w uh. Yes.”

Molly grinned to herself as she turned away, packing the organ into a container. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t often wrong-footed and she was enjoying it. Enjoying being the one who caused him to stumble so clumsily.

Sherlock was not used to being ignored. People told him to piss off, they told him he was annoying and rude, and sometimes they punched him in the face. But no one ever really ignored him.

Molly Hooper was ignoring him. She hadn’t looked at him with admiration as he entered the room. She hadn’t gazed with adoration when he spoke. She hadn’t stuttered with approbation when he deduced the cause of death and she hadn’t sighed with appreciation when he’d attempted to compliment her.

She was ignoring him. She hadn’t offered him coffee or looked at him. Actually now that he thought about it, she hadn’t even properly greeted him.

Had he insulted her in some way during their last encounter? He thought back to their previous meeting, attempting to work out if he had said something for which he needed to apologise for. Of course, there was little chance of him recognizing such a faux pas. He hadn’t made any comment about her appearance other than to say that she looked lovely (try as he might he could find no insult in that). He hadn’t berated her intellect or her love life. He hadn’t even remarked on the soup stains on her cardigan. So why wasn’t she talking to him?

It was a mystery.

He leaned against the autopsy table, his eyes intently focused on her.  He did so love a mystery.

Her hands were at her sides and fists were clenched slightly. It was a clear sign of some inner turmoil and indicated that she wasn’t as calm as she appeared on the outside. But she was doing her very best to appear as if nothing was wrong, which suggested embarrassment or unease with whatever it was that was upsetting her. It was something that she didn’t wish to talk about. Her cheeks were slightly flushed under the new make-up. Ah, new make-up. A slightly different style and unfamiliar brand. Rather more upmarket than her usual. Molly was trying to appear more attractive. But her shoes were the old reliable ones she wore when she was doing long shifts on her feet so she wasn’t going on a date. Her fingernails were buffed and polished too, another thing that she rarely bothered with since she’d be wrist deep in someone’s intestines.

Conclusion: she was trying to impress someone whilst not making it appear that she was doing so.

Sherlock mentally ran through all of the men he knew would appear in the morgue and ruled them all out as the potential object of her machinations until one remained.

Him.

He preened.

Allowing a slow smile to slip over his lips, he deliberately deepened his voice. “Thank you, Molly.”

Then, as he reached for the bag, he made sure to brush her fingertips with his own.

He was aware that the low octave of a man’s voice was supposed to excite feelings in women. He also knew that the simplest touch of skin on skin could cause sensation to erupt, causing the participants to become full of hormones and willing to copulate.

He wasn’t aware that temper beat hormones every time and that, although hell might have no fury like a woman scorned, a woman ignored was an icy bitch.

Molly pulled her hand away without even a caught breath. “You sound like you’re getting a cold, Sherlock. Best get back to Baker Street and keep warm. I’ve got paperwork to do. See you later.”

Molly turned on her sensible flat heels and wandered back to her office, leaving Sherlock staring blankly at the place she had been, wondering what on earth had just happened.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had noticed that something very odd had occurred; John Watson, his partner- although not like that, thank you very much, not that there was anything wrong with that it was just that people would talk- had also noted her behaviour.

As soon as they left the morgue, John turned to him and punched him hard on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Sherlock glared at him. “What was that for?”

“What did you do to Molly Hooper?” John planted his fists on his hips and attempted to stare down the consulting detective.

Although his stature wasn’t nearly as impressive as his best friend, he had moral indignation and a lifetime of being right on his side, which added a good couple of inches. He also knew exactly where Sherlock kept his cigarettes and thought nothing of blogging about the more intimate details of Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock wilted. “I did nothing.”

“Nothing?” John pointed back towards the morgue. “Molly is mad at you.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” John waved his hands in the air. “She wouldn’t look at you, barely spoke to you. You’ve obviously done something really bad to affect her. Sweet, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly, would-do-anything-for-you Molly.”

Sherlock sneered. “A slight exaggeration, John. She dissects corpses for a living. I’m sure she would harm a fly.”

She also had no compunction about stepping on spiders either, but he didn’t know that (and it isn’t really relevant to the story.)

John gave him the “army doctor stare of death” (copyright John Watson). “Whatever you did, Sherlock, you’d better fix it.”

“How can I fix it when I have no idea what I did?”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re the detective. Detect.”

“Yes, very helpful, John.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and wondered- not for the first time- why John Watson was his friend.

“Do you, or do you not, want continued access to the morgue?”

“I do.”

John huffed and pointed back at the door. “Then make it right!”

John didn’t wait for him to reply this time. He stormed off down the corridor muttering to himself about flatmates and asylums.

Sherlock stared back at the door.  In his recent mental wanderings about a possible relationship between Molly and himself he had constructed many scenarios whereupon he informed her of his newfound interest and she responded favourably. He had thought that he’d covered every eventuality during these scenarios; from her bursting into tears with pleasure, throwing herself at him (his personal favourite) and also her disbelief.

He hadn’t figured on her ignoring him or being angry at him. It changed the parameters somewhat. But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not adaptable.

Perhaps John had done him a favour in leaving. After all, Molly had been somewhat distracted by the fact that there were two of them. Perhaps she would be more amenable during a one-on-one situation.

He took a deep breath, flicked the collar up on his Belstaff coat, and sauntered back into the morgue.

Molly was still standing over the corpse of Mr. Weston-Jones. Instead of a scalpel in her dexterous fingers, she held a long needle and thread and was carefully sewing his body back together.

Sherlock paused, watching her as she frowned, pulling the skin together and pulling the thread through like a macabre version of Dr. Frankenstein piecing together his monster.

“It’s alive,” he muttered under his breath.

He knew that, with modern techniques, she could have just stapled the body back together, but sewing was a personal touch, so very in keeping with Molly Hooper; a gentle soul who wielded a scalpel with compelling proficiency.

She tied the thread into a knot and cut through it with some scissors. As she placed them down her eyes flicked back up to the door. She did a double take.

“Sherlock? I- I thought you’d gone.”

He saw her swallow hard, her throat obviously dry. She hadn’t expected him to come back and was unsettled by his presence. So much so that she had forgotten to reassemble her cool facade and stuttered.

He smirked.

It is a common misconception among men that women like a good smirk.

They don’t.

Contrary to the general opinion that it makes a man look confidant and successful, it actually makes them look arrogant and smug and nothing sets a woman’s back up faster than to believe that she is either being patronised or condescended to.

The only thing a good smirk deserves is a good slap.

Molly found her palms itching. She was well aware that she had stuttered and it made her angry. She had been doing so well and then he had waltzed back into her morgue with his Belstaff collar and his cheekbones and _smirked_ at her.

Bastard.

Well, he might think that he had the upper hand here but he was wrong.

Molly turned her back to him, placing her needle down on the sterilizing tray and took several seconds to drag in deep breaths and bring up her inner picture.

Molly’s inner picture was one that she had carefully cultivated over the past few days from a method taken almost directly from the man himself. Molly had complied every time she had said something stupid, every time she had made overtures only for them be rebuffed and every time he had walked by her like she didn’t matter. Then she had taken all of the expressions he had held at those moments- smug, condescending, irritated, bemused and exasperated- and melded them into one expression. Disdain.

And she pictured him staring at her in disdain, laughing at her.

It was like taking a bath in ice water.

When she visualised that expression, she didn’t want to please him, didn’t want to help him. She wanted to punch him in the face and make him go away.

As therapy it was both inexpensive and quite useful. It was also working and that was the main thing.

Molly turned back to him. He was still smirking but her armour was now back in place.

“Did you forget something?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I rarely forget things, Molly.” He walked up to the autopsy table, his eyes dancing over the corpse. “Good work with the stitches. Very meticulous.”

A compliment from Sherlock Holmes only meant one thing; he was after something.

Suddenly Molly felt so very tired.

She sighed and swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, brushing her hair away from her eyes. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

He could see the exhaustion etched onto her face and the way she held herself. She wasn’t getting anywhere near enough sleep and it was beginning to show.

She was also not reacting to his presence the way he had anticipated. Maybe John was right and he had done something to upset her. Whatever it was, he needed to set it right so that they could move forward with this relationship.

 He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at the pathologist.

“Ahem, Molly.”

He paused.

“Sherlock?”

“I am not unaware that I have a distinct lack of comprehension in regards to the more sentimental and esoteric traits of human behaviour. John has pointed out my failings in this regard on more than one occasion. I realise that, at times, I may be abrupt and have a tendency to speak without due regard for the feelings of others. As a result of this I am often unaware of times when I have offended a person.” He clasped his hands together and leaned them against the cold steel of the table.

Molly blinked. “That is a really long-winded way of saying that you’re rubbish with people.”

“It stands. If I have offended you recently at some juncture it was never my intention.”

Apparently Sherlock was also rubbish with apologies. The pitiful kiss on her cheek at Christmas notwithstanding. Molly inclined her head.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Okay.”

Molly waited, saying nothing. There was a very uncomfortable silence for several seconds before Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Fine.” Sherlock smiled at her, nodded at the corpse and left the morgue.

Molly stared after him.

What the hell was that?

\--

Sherlock paced in his flat. Okay? Okay? What did that even mean? Was that ‘okay they were fine and things were back to normal’ or ‘okay they were colleagues and nothing more’ or ‘okay...’ what?

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face. He had always known that women were far more confusing than men. They had their own rules and codes and ‘feelings’. As a child he had been convinced that they were not even human.

He had a long talk with his primary school teacher on how it was physiologically impossible for the human body to bleed for five days and not die. Ergo women were not human. It had taken a rather awkward letter home and a rather uncomfortable parent-teacher conference to set matters straight.

Mycroft had laughed for two days solid.

But that was years ago. Surely in the enlightened 21st century someone somewhere must have cracked the code in how to understand women.

Sherlock threw himself on his sofa and grabbed for his violin. He scraped the bow across the strings. An evil hiss filled the air as he mercilessly scraped at the priceless instrument. But Sherlock didn’t even hear it.

How to understand women? He could ask John but he really didn’t want to appear quite so lacking in this area. The nickname of ‘the Virgin’ was humiliating enough without adding ‘clueless’ to the front of it.

He let his eyes drift across to John’s laptop and a slow smile drifted over his lips. Of course.

Research.

A Google search for “what does it mean when a woman says okay” yielded some startling results.

_Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements that a woman can make to a man. “Okay” means that she wants to think long and hard before paying you back for whatever it is that you have done. At some point in the near future, you are going to be in some mighty big trouble. “That’s Okay/ It’s Okay” or “Okay” is often used with the word “Fine”. This is much, much worse than ‘Okay’ on its own._

_Solution: Grovel. With flowers._

Sherlock scowled at the website. He did not, nor would he ever, grovel.

Surely this website was in error. Women could not be so capricious?  If something was wrong, surely they would just come out and say so rather than depend on men cracking some sort of mystical code.

Besides, he had apologized. Well, he had acknowledged that he was not entirely blameless and surely that was the same thing.

No, he thought, shutting down the lap top. He was certain that his way was best.

Molly was just tired and hadn’t noticed his increase in interest. It wasn’t her fault that the gentle art of subtlety had been lost generations ago. He would have to be more forthright in his attentions; that was all.

He pressed his palms together in deep thought.

Sadly it wasn’t the right kind of mediation that Sherlock was attempting. Had he fixated on the reasons why Molly Hooper wasn’t reacting the way he wished her to and less on how to manipulate her into acting that way then he might have had an easier time of it.

Or not so much. Women are, after all, as capricious as cats. And twice as mean when cornered. 


	4. Chapter 4

 

As everyone who reads John Watson’s blog is aware, when Scotland Yard are out of their depth they call on Sherlock to help. Despite what most people think, however, it doesn’t happen that often.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was quite a capable police officer. It was somewhat of a prerequisite for the job of Detective Inspector. He was perfectly able to deduce, detect and thwart criminal masterminds on his own.

However he was only one man and his force wasn’t that big. London was a massive place and, to be honest, Sherlock Holmes speeded things up tremendously.

Even if Sherlock was also an arrogant prat, a complete egomanic, and had the attention span of a preschooler.

Lestrade tucked his hands into his pockets and resisted the urge to offer the detective a lollipop in order to make him focus. The last thing he needed was that man on a sugar high.

“Sherlock?”

The man held up his hand dismissively. “Quiet, I’m thinking.”

“Oh god.”

“Shut up, Anderson, and go see someone about the rash. Looks like it could turn nasty.”

Lestrade gave Anderson a look of pity mixed with a healthy dose of disgust, before taking several steps away from the blushing forensic. Better safe than sorry.

Sherlock knelt at the side of the corpse, his magnifying glass in one hand as he examined the tiny white grains on the shirt of the victim.

“Been in the water for at least a day, judging by the salt water deposits and the level of decomposition. Gouges in the hands, smart lines, something dragged across slicing the centre. Dirt under the nails has been all but washed away but the remaining reddish tone tells us that he worked with clay. Not a potter, his clothes are too worn. Manual worker then, construction in all likelihood.  Judging by the state of his boots quite a long time. But new overalls. New job wants to impress but the shoes are old because they are worn in; you don’t wear new shoes on a new job. New job, new site. Where in London has been under construction recently with red clay and copper piping? The Olympic stadium.”

“Impressive,” Lestrade said, making a note in his book. “And the other than obvious?”

Sherlock barely looked up. “Hmm?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “His head, Sherlock. The man doesn’t have a head.”

“Striations.”

“What?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Striations across the shoulders. It’s all very obvious and very dull.”

Lestrade bit his lip. He was a police officer. Murder was illegal. Instead of bludgeoning the man he took a deep breath. “Explain it anyway.”

“Construction worker of several decades working on one of the most sought after projects in England. But he’s down on his luck, ticket stub in his pocket. Composite gambler needs to make money fast. What’s in plentiful supply at a construction site? Copper piping. His hands show that he’s been stripping it from the walls. Minute traces of copper in his wound. He wouldn’t go alone so he had a partner, someone also in construction. They go at night to strip the copper, only it’s a construction site, he falls against something- scuff marks on his boots, tears in his overalls. He pulls down the support beams and one of them, probably a steel stand judging by the striations, slices off his head. His friend panics, throws him in the river. Dull, boring and obvious. Check the stadium for construction workers who didn’t turn up and check their hands for marks similar to these.”

He got to his feet. “Barely a four, Lestrade.”

The Detective Inspector shrugged. “He didn’t have a head.”

But Sherlock was done listening. He looked around for his missing assistant and spotted him by the cordon line chatting with one of the police officers.

As Sherlock came closer he deduced everything about the woman, from her uniform (obviously a new officer judging by the crispness of the fabric and her adherence to strict dress code) to her medical history and filed it all away under “Only important if John dates her.”

And it seemed that that was what his friend had in mind. The cues were all there. John had his head inclined and shoulders hunched inwards- a classic interested but self-deprecating action. The woman was laughing and leaned over to touch John’s arm, clearly signalling attraction. John laughed back and angled his body closer.

Sherlock paused in his stride and an odd thought crossed his mind. He watched as John grinned boyishly at the woman and said something to her. The woman obviously agreed with whatever it was and glanced around quickly before dipping her hand into her pocket and pulling out a pen. John offered her his hand and she scrawled on it, her lip caught between her teeth.

John caught sight of Sherlock and nodded to him to wait. He finished his conversation with the police woman before heading towards Sherlock, a strut in his step.

Sherlock stared at the digits on the back of John’s hand.

He had known that John classed himself as something of a ladies man and he was never without a date when he wanted one - Sherlock had seen the procession of women in and out of the flat and had just ignored them as a matter of course – yet somehow it had never occurred to him that John was actually quite good at the whole ‘women’ thing.

He seemed to know how to get what he wanted without making a fool of himself and not insulting or offending the woman in question. How did he manage it?

In the time it had taken Sherlock to determine cause of death in this, frankly rather easy, case. John had met, charmed, chatted up and, presumably, arranged a date with a woman.

Sherlock was almost impressed.

“All right was it?” John asked.

“Dull, boring, obvious,” Sherlock repeated watching John in fascination. “How did you do that?”

John looked around bemused. “How did I do what?”

“John, I’ve barely been gone five minutes and you’ve managed to acquire yet another potential conquest. How?”

John looked back over his shoulder to the police woman. “What, Cheryl? I asked her out.”

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, that much I’ve gleaned from the numbers on the back of your hand. But what did you do? What did you say to her in order to get her to date you?”

John frowned in confusion. “The usual.”

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “I can’t decide whether you are being deliberately obtuse or if being annoying is something that comes naturally. Specifics, John.”

John had grown used to the many eccentricities of his flat-mate. He had come to terms with being woken up at all hours of the night for the most trivial reasons. He had become accustomed to dropping everything and running through London for no other reason than Sherlock saying it must be done. He put up with temper tantrums, heads in the fridge, toes in the freezer, insults, arrogance, deductions regarding everything from his history to his hygiene, shooting the walls and staring catatonic for days at a time.

But being asked to explain his pick-up technique was something new.

“Are you serious?”

“When am I anything else, John?”

True. John sighed. “I introduced myself, told her I was here with you. I asked her if she was new because I hadn’t seen her before.”

“Then obviously she was new.”

John shook his head. “It’s called a conversation starter, you great git. Those of us that can’t deduce a person’s entire life story from the way they chew a pen have to rely on actual communication. Anyway, Cheryl told me she had just been assigned here from Nottingham and I made a joke about Robin Hood.”

“Unimportant,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

“Actually no,” John folded his arms across his chest in defiance, “the joke puts her at ease and lets her know that I’m easy going. Jokes reduce tension, Sherlock. Humour is very useful when you’re dating. Anyway I told her why we were there, warned her about you although she had already heard about you so I had to put her right. Then I touched her arm to initiate contact- show that I’m interested. And then I complimented her and asked her out for a drink. There. Is that what you wanted to know?”

Sherlock gave him a patently fake smile. “Introduction, asinine comment, joke, touch and compliment. Is that your usual system? What is your success ratio?”

John blinked. He had no idea what was going on now. Not that he was ever really on the ball when he was dealing with Sherlock but once- just once- it would be nice if he didn’t feel like he was diagonally parked in a parallel universe.

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I’ve never thought about it. 85 percent maybe?”

Actually, judging by the amount of dates that the doctor went on, it was probably closer to 90 percent. There did seem to be something about the man that women found irresistible. Sherlock wasn’t sure what it was and had never spent much time or energy attempting to fathom it.

Maybe he should have.

He ran his eyes over his best friend, not in his usual deductive way but more speculatively, sizing him up as a potential partner. John wasn’t tall, merely 5’5, 5’6 if one was feeling generous. He was neither fat nor overly slender. He had once been referred to as cuddly by one insipid girlfriend who lasted two dates and one meeting with Sherlock. Sherlock would probably have gone with ‘solid’ rather than cuddly. He was somewhat athletic and was quite fit, probably due to his having been in the military. His eyes were either blue or grey depending on the light and his smile was quite charming.

Yes, now that he was looking, Sherlock could certainly see the attraction that women would have to his friend.

John shifted under Sherlock’s intent gaze. “Um, Sherlock?  What are you doing? You’re making me just a bit uneasy here.”

“Just thinking of you as a prospective mate.”

John’s eyes flew wide open. “And we’re right into freaking me out.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, shifting from foot to foot. “Listen, I’m flattered, really. Thank you, but-“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, not for me, you idiot. I meant in general. I was attempting to reason on why women found you attractive.”

John blinked. “Oh. Right. Yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “And?”

Sherlock smirked. “It’s the jumpers. Obviously.”

“The jumpers? Sherlock!”


	5. Chapter 5

5

Introduction, asinine comment, joke, touch and compliment. John’s supposed winning combination was firmly fixed in Sherlock’s mind as he pushed his way into Barts the next day. He had spent most of the night wondering how to apply it in this case.

He wasn’t one for asinine comments, jokes or human contact but he was certain that he could do a decent enough job that Molly would be impressed.

She’d flush and flash that perfectly sweet smile at him and then he’d...

Stop fantasizing because it was really counterproductive.

Honestly if feelings and emotions meant that he spent the majority of his time daydreaming then no wonder regular people never seemed to get anything done.

The sooner Molly realised that he was interested in beginning a relationship and fell in line with his plans the sooner things could get back to normal.

He swept along the corridor, his coat flapping behind him. Sherlock slowed as he reached the morgue and he cleared his throat, adjusted his scarf and ran his fingers through his curls. Then he pushed open the door and swaggered inside.

Molly Hooper had been doing so well with her resolution. Since her Great Realisation she had terminated her Sherlock inspired blog-of-love, thrown out her pictures of him in that ridiculous hat and joined _plentyoffish.com_ in the-rather vain- hopes of finding a man who wasn’t a psychopath to date.

She didn’t want much out of life, she realised as she sat down to fill out her profile. All she really wanted was a man who was like a book: possessing a spine and interesting between the covers. Or maybe she was aiming too high to try and find one who possessed both a spine and a brain.

Either way she was getting on with her life, thank you very much, and the last thing she needed was the stomping feet of one Sherlock Holmes heading towards her morgue.

Molly could always hear Sherlock coming from a mile away. His strides were long, measured and would be accompanied by a subtle sway of the hips. No one else had that confident strut down as well as he had. He could give Kate Moss or Lily Cole a run for their money. In fact, with his sculpted cheeks, diva- like ways and emaciated frame, he was practically a supermodel already.

Molly grinned to herself at the thought of the world’s only consulting detective stalking down the catwalk only to pause, smirk, and twirl, his coat floating behind him.

 _Britain’s Next Top Model,_ eat your heart out.

She giggled.

The footsteps got nearer and Molly braced herself for his usual barrage of hurtful comments, blatant manipulation and arrogance.

 _You are Molly Hooper and you are over Sherlock Holmes._ She repeated inside her head. _You are Molly Hooper and you are over Sherlock Holmes. Be professional, be polite but be practical. Remember he’s a jerk who has hurt you time and again. Remember that you are worth so much more than that._

She collected her nerves and gathered her visual aid as the door swung open.

Sherlock waltzed in like he owned the place, putting Molly in mind of a gunslinger from the Wild West. His bright eyes flitted around the room cataloguing everything he could see. Molly knew that, if she asked him, he’d probably be able to tell her who had been in the room in the past twenty-four hours, where the cleaning lady was from and how many corpses had been through here today.

But she wasn’t going to ask because she was beyond being impressed by his deductions.

_Remember he’s a jerk._

Finally his eyes came to rest on her. An afterthought. Like always. She swallowed down the hurt that always came and edged a polite smile onto her face.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock allowed himself time to calm down before facing Molly. He always found deducting things to be soothing. The simple act of picking up details and aligning them with his knowledge made everything so much neater in his world and gave him the calmness that he needed to deal with the rest of the messy world. The world of feelings and emotions and relationships and human interaction; that world made no sense to him at all.

But it was a world he was going to enter.

He finally turned his eyes to Molly who stood by the autopsy slab, paperwork in her hand and a smile on her face. It was a polite smile; the smile of someone who had had a hard day and was ready to go home. He flicked his eyes over her taking in her no-nonsense clothes (practical for working with bodily fluids), her flat shoes (on her feet all day), ink stains on her fingers (mountains of paperwork to do), the tiny stains on her sleeves (was reading whilst eating tomato soup for lunch) and deducing that she had spent all day at the morgue.

“Sherlock” she greeted.

He gave her a nod. “Hello, Molly. How was the soup?”

Molly blinked at him. “Fine. I made it at home, don’t trust the canteen food.”

“Nor should you,” He whipped off his coat and slung it over the back of a chair. Right, here it goes. Stage one: Introductions. “I’m going to be doing some experiments, Molly.”

She shrugged. “Okay, you know where everything is.”

He smiled as she returned to her paperwork and he slid onto the stool by his favourite microscope. So far so good. In fact, why do all of the messy stuff? Why not go straight to the end game? He pulled a few slides out of his pocket and slid them into place. He adjusted the focus and glanced up.

Molly was still writing on her clipboard, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Molly?”

“Hmm?”

“How about a coffee?” He smiled winningly.

Molly heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes and headed into her office.

His smile fell.

Well. He hadn’t expected that.

He was trying to work out what he’d done wrong when she returned, placing a steaming cup next to his microscope, and walking away again.

Sherlock replayed his words in his head.

_How about a coffee?_

He rolled his eyes at himself.

Stupid. Her reaction was easily understood considering their previous interactions. Perhaps this is was why John went by a formula. Obviously skipping steps caused problems. It was like with any experiment, one had to proceed in a logical order in order to get the required result.

That meant going back and starting again.

Right. Introduction which includes asinine comments.

He cleared his throat. “I’m attempting to see if there is any growth to the epithelial tissue on a corpse if certain chemicals are added that enhance cell reproduction.”

Molly paused in her work and looked up at him curiously. “Are you trying to reanimate a corpse to create an undead army?”

“No.”

She licked her lips and nodded once before returning to her clipboard. “Just checking.”

He had gained her interest only to lose it again. Obviously more of this insipid small talk was needed.

“Of course, in the event that I do manage to reanimate dead cells, the possibilities are endless. Reforming limbs, reviving the elderly, delaying death-“

“Zombie apocalypse,” she muttered.

“I hardly think it would come to that, Molly,” he scoffed, “of course in viral form the chemical could be utilised as a weapon, however no one would be so foolish as to manufacture and distribute such.”

Molly shook her head. “Ask John to rent _Resident Evil_.”

Sherlock grinned into the microscope. Conversation. Excellent. Now, a joke.

“Of course, should there be a zombie apocalypse, being situated in the morgue as you are, you would be the first to know about it. Unfortunately you would also be the first to die.”

Molly gaped at him. “What?”

“You aren’t very observant, Molly, and that would be your downfall. They’d eat you first and then you’d become grey and unkempt... are you sure you haven’t been bitten already?”

There was the joke. She had to find that amusing.

Molly clenched her jaw. “No, I haven’t been bitten, Sherlock.”

Or not. Sherlock back-peddled. “I merely-“

“Oh, I know. I’m pale and lifeless like a corpse. I’ve been up since five, on my feet since six and I work in the basement in a hospital in _England_ \- of course I’m bloody pale.” Molly reigned in her temper. “You can be such a –”

She bit off her words and turned back to her paperwork.

This wasn’t going well. Sherlock was frustrated. It never seemed this hard for John.

He watched as Molly slammed the clipboard down and pulled out an autopsy tray, placing her tools down meticulously before pulling a body out of the drawer and wheeling it over to the autopsy table.

She washed her hands thoroughly, slid on her scrubs and gloves and put her mask in place. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, probably to centre herself, and picked up her favourite scalpel.

 

Of course, Molly was not attempting to centre herself, as such. What she was actually trying to do was force herself to believe that walking over and stabbing her scalpel into the eye of the worlds’ only consulting detective would be a very bad idea.

Least of all because it would mean sterilizing the scalpel again. Mind you, if she did decide that enough was enough, she had a very handy autopsy table complete with blood drainer and power tools for an effective dismemberment. No one would ever find him.

Molly tried not to grin. As her teacher had once told her, ghoulish humour was fine but no one needed to see you grinning over a corpse. It frightened the students.

It had also frightened one potential boyfriend who had come to see her during late night revision for her pathology finals. Apparently not only was it ‘not cool’ to be chatting and laughing over a dead body, but it also produced mild nightmares and bed-wetting episodes in members of the chess club.  

Molly still wasn’t convinced she minded that he hadn’t spoken to her at all afterwards. She had no use for a man who was not only squeamish at the sight of blood but also who wore such hideous jumpers.

She had some standards. Not many, but some.

Finishing off her initial observations about the body, she slid her scalpel into the chest, making her ‘Y’ incision.

She peeled back the skin and examined the inner skin, checking for discolouration. Finding none, she reached for her rib cutters.

“I have seen many autopsies performed, Molly, and I do find that you have an outstanding corpse technique.”

She froze.

“What?”

“Your manner with the deceased is excellent. You manage to be professional without sentimentality and efficient without being overly clinical. In addition, your skills with the knife are quite... suggestive.” He smirked at her.

Molly stared, her mouth half open.

What. The. Hell?

Suggestive? What was Sherlock Holmes saying? Who praised someone’s dissection technique?  Normally when he came to the lab you couldn’t drag conversation out of him with a crowbar and packet of Quavers and now he was... what?

Molly wished she wasn’t wielding a blood- stained scalpel as she dearly wished to rub her face.

“Um... thank you?”

 Possibly.

He smiled wider, moving off his stool to stand on the opposite side of the autopsy table.

He stared down at the body of Mrs. Andrews and smiled.

Dammit, they were right. It was kind of creepy.

“I’d like to watch you crack the ribs.”

And suddenly she was less worried about the grin and more worried about the sudden gleam in his eyes.

She edged back slightly and gripped the scalpel even tighter. “Uh, Sherlock, are you feeling okay?”

His grin became almost desperate. “You know, your mouth really isn’t that small up close.”

“Are you saying I have a big mouth?”

His shoulders sagged slightly. “Is that not right?”

She shook her head in disbelief.

“Very well,” he took a deep breath, “you have ample breasts which, whilst not shown to their best in your work attire, are quite compelling when you are in formal clothing.  They have a delightful pigmentation and seem quite firm yet supple although I cannot confirm this due to lack of hands on experience. No pun intended.”

Molly put the scalpel down slowly. “I see. One moment please.”

Sherlock gripped the edge of the table as Molly backed away from him, heading towards the office.

“Of course,” he said with his largest grin in place.

He was well aware that he lacked in certain areas of human interaction but he had no idea that complimenting a woman was such a potential minefield. Luckily it seemed that his final comments had the appropriate response. He had thought that remarking on her work technique would gain him a favourable response but that hadn’t worked. In fact, Molly had seemed very uneasy with his praise.

Perhaps she was insecure about her proficiency and required more encouragement. Still, she had reacted when he commented on her person. She might be a brilliant pathologist but she was still a woman and women- according to John Watson- liked to be told they were appealing.

Sherlock beamed down at Mrs. Andrews. At last things were going right.

 He heard voices and peered around the door to the office. Molly was on her phone.

“Yes, John, great.”

He frowned. Why was she talking to John?

“Listen... I don’t want to worry you but has Sherlock been taking anything? Anything at all? Psychotropic? LSD? Valium? Prozac? Maybe some member of the cannabis family? No? You’re sure.” She paused. “Uh huh. No reason. Um... has he hit his head any time in the past twenty four hours? Any possibility of brain damage? Again, no reason. You’re sure? Any cases recently? Weird ingestions, inhalations? Gone back to Baskerville at all? Uh huh. Have you been dropping anything into his coffee? Well, maybe I - ... no, I can’t get you anything. It would be completely unethical. Also he’d know. So nothing unusual happened recently? Right, good to know. No reason. Thanks, John. Okay. Bye.”

She put the phone down and stared at the tiny mobile. “Huh.”

“Molly?”

She jumped. “Hey, Sherlock.”

Her smile was slightly too wide.

He fought back the absurd hurt he felt that his flirtations had been put down to some sort of illness or medical alteration. Perhaps he wasn’t the most genuine of people, but he could be charming when he chose to be.

“I am not mentally unhinged, nor am I taking any mind-altering drugs. Either purposely or accidentally. I merely wished to compliment you.”

Molly blinked. “That was you being complimentary?”

“Yes.”

Wasn’t it obvious?

“But you’ve said nice things before, about my hair and... things.”

He shrugged. “I was lying.”

“Suddenly the past few years make so much more sense,” Molly muttered. She walked past him into the morgue again. “Look, Sherlock, I have no idea what’s going on with you right now, but I have quite a few autopsies to get through and a mountain of paperwork. If you want something, just tell me what it is.”

Sherlock stared at her, not sure what to say.

Molly Hooper seemed to be the only person who could render him speechless. Twice now she had completely derailed his train of thought and tied his usually eloquent tongue in knots. What was it about her that made him so stupid, so _ordinary_?

What did he want from her? He wanted to understand why she no longer fawned after him when he walked into the room. He wanted to know why she no longer beamed brightly at him, or why her eyes never softened like they had done. He wanted to know where her newfound confidence had come from and where those delightful blushes had disappeared to. But most of all he wanted to know why it was so hard to ask a woman out for bloody coffee.

Instead he said nothing and walked away.

\--


	6. 6

John Watson enjoyed many things in life. Well, he did now, at any rate.

His therapist had once made him write a long list of things that he liked in order to bring him out of his PTSD. At the time he had thought it a singularly stupid idea, after all when you are depressed you  _can't_  think of anything you like, you merely have things that don't hurt as bad or make you as sad. Life is dull and empty smattered with days of unending grey.

But once he'd moved in with Sherlock, and life was in colour again, he began keeping that list and every day it got longer.

Of the things John Watson enjoyed, sex was obviously at the top, followed by tea (he was British after all), fish and chips, football, beer, roast dinner with Yorkshire puddings, the soft skin behind a woman's ear and sitting in a chair with a cup of Yorkshire tea, custard creams and today's paper.

He liked it even better when Sherlock was out so he didn't have to listen to his best friend moaning like a toddler when he was bored. Or shooting at the walls. Or abusing his poor violin.

John was just settling back with the Daily Mail and a hot cuppa, basking in the blissful silence of Baker Street, when his best friend and the bane of his existence stormed in, slamming the front door behind him. John sighed as Sherlock pounded up the stairs and flung open the door to the flat.

John sipped his tea, deliberately not looking up. "Bad day?"

"This is entirely your fault," Sherlock stated loudly as he threw his scarf and coat onto the sofa. He stormed over to the window, looked out for two seconds and then kicked the wall.

John frowned. "Watch it, Mrs. Hudson doesn't want to redecorate."

"Blast Mrs. Hudson, and blast you too!" Sherlock reached for his violin and drew the bow down the strings. The poor violin hissed and spat as he dragged the bow slowly over it. John's teeth itched.

He looked up finally but Sherlock was glaring at the floor as he wrenched screams out of his precious instrument. John ground his teeth.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock, with all the maturity he possessed, ignored him.

He brought the bow across harshly, making a noise like a strangled cat, and then did it again. And again.

"Sherlock!" John wadded up the paper in his hands, barely resisting the urge to stuff it down Sherlock's throat. "Stop being such a child and tell me what's wrong."

"Wrong? Wrong?" Sherlock, blessedly, stopped abusing the violin. "What is wrong is erroneous data, John. Sloppy information culminating in catastrophe."

John looked at him curiously. "I didn't think we had a case right now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We don't."

Right, thought John, it was going to be one of  _those_  conversations. "Okay, so who has given you false information?"

"You."

John blinked. "Me?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Introduction, small talk, a joke, a compliment. Rubbish, John, complete rubbish."

John opened his mouth, but his brain had switched off. "Sorry. What?"

"You gave me incorrect advice, John."

"Yes. I got that part," John said faintly. "You tried to chat someone up."

"Obviously."

"And failed."

Sherlock only scowled more deeply at the amusement in John's voice. "Only because of bad intelligence. Although why I was expecting anything else is beyond me."

John put the paper down. This was far more interesting than whatever scandal was currently brewing in the House of Commons. Hell, this was potentially more interesting than the football score.

He inched forwards on his seat. "Tell me what happened."

"I just told you."

"Specifics," John had his tongue firmly in cheek, "after all, Sherlock, it's the details that count."

It was worth everything to see that look on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock ground his teeth together. "I entered the morgue, greeted Doctor Hooper and engaged her in 'small talk'. I told her of my experiment and—"

"Wait, wait!" The amusement left John's expression. "Molly Hooper."

"Do keep up, John. After I-"

John held his hand up. "No, wait. You are trying to flirt with Molly Hooper? Sherlock!" He raked a hand through his hair. "That's... not good. It's very not good. In fact, it's downright bad."

It was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "What? Why?"

John threw his hands in the air dramatically. "Because Molly Hooper has a crush on you,"  _you great blind idiot_ , he wanted to add. "To raise her hopes up by flirting with her, when you have no intention of following through, is just cruel. Even for you, Sherlock. It's wrong. At least test your flirting skills out on someone who doesn't know you and so won't get hurt when you waltz off. God!" He ran his hand over his face imaging poor Molly in tears over Sherlock. Again.

The look on Sherlock's face was unreadable.

John swallowed another curse. Sometimes he forgot how clueless Sherlock was about basic social interactions. The man was a genius, no doubt, he could calculate and deduce the entire world, but human behaviour would always be a mystery to him.

John had often wondered how Sherlock had managed to make it to adulthood without being severely beaten each day of his life. After much deliberation he put it down to height. People were reluctant to hit someone taller than they were. If Sherlock were a few inches shorter he'd have had his rudeness punched out of him.

"At this rate you're going to be banned from St. Barts forever," John groaned.

Sherlock just stared at him.

"What?"

"You have made the erroneous supposition that my intentions are insincere."

John frowned. Sherlock usually only began to sound like he'd swallowed a thesaurus when he was deeply uncomfortable. It was one of his ways of putting people off asking any more questions. John had become immune to it.

It didn't stop him from being confused by it occasionally. He sorted through the words.

"I'm wrong in thinking?" He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Are you telling me that you're genuinely interested in Molly?"

Sherlock looked at the instrument in his hands. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes." John blurted out without thinking. He was shocked by the hurt look on Sherlock's face.

"Contrary to popular opinion, John, I am a human being and thus can change both my mind and my habits. A relationship of mutual admiration and affection is not completely out of the realm of possibility."

When he brought out the 'thus's and 'realm's John knew he was in trouble.

He sat back. "Sorry. Just ... really? Molly?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder in a casual manner that indicated he felt more deeply than he was letting on.

It seemed, however unlikely, that Sherlock was telling the truth. He felt something for another human being. More than that, he felt something for the sweet and shy pathologist who had been in love with him forever.

Honestly, John had never expected this to happen. He had always assumed at some point, that he would get married and move out, leaving Sherlock annoyed and festering with resentment in 221B Baker Street. He had never imagined that, of the two of them, Sherlock would be the one to be in a relationship- a serious relationship- first. And serious is what it would be because- as mentioned previously- Sherlock Holmes was a genius and only a bloody idiot would throw away someone who worshiped the ground they walked on. Molly was sweet, devoted, clever, strong, and enjoyed slicing people open and looking at their intestines. She was perfect for Sherlock.

John sighed.

"Well, in that case, congratulations, mate."

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "I failed, John."

"Are you trying to tell me," he bit back a huge grin, "that Molly- Molly Hooper- turned you down?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Yes."

John couldn't help the smirk that crossed his face. This was classic. This was beyond classic. This was epic. He wanted to know it all. He wanted to know what Molly had said to bring Sherlock to this level. Then he wanted to give her chocolates and thank her for this afternoon's amusement.

"Look. Why don't you sit down and tell me exactly what happened: What you said, what she said. We'll try and sort something out. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded once, took a deep breath and proceeded to tell John exactly what had transpired between him and Molly.

Then he waited impatiently as his 'friend' cried tears of mirth and clutched at his sides.

Before John came along, his sole means of socialisation consisted of arguments with Lestrade, nagging from Mrs. Hudson and long monologues with his skull. If he had problems, he'd pontificate and elucidate and the skull would simply sit there and say nothing. It never laughed at him, never mocked him and never second guessed him.

Living best friends were severely overrated.

However the skull never made coffee, so on the other hand, there were perks to having a breathing companion.

He folded his arms and waited as John got himself under control.

John finally calmed down, wiping his eyes. "Sorry, sorry," he said sounding not very sorry at all. Forget chocolates, he was going to have to buy her a house. Who knew Molly had it in her? Obviously Sherlock had expected her to just fall at his feet and was pouting like a child because she hadn't.

This was going to last him decades.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked dryly. "I do hope that you are able to offer something more than amusement at my predicament."

Not much more. John tried to reign himself in. "Well, comparing the woman you fancy to a zombie is bad."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, I deduced that much."

John sat back on the sofa, a grin still playing around his lips. "Well here's something you missed. Molly isn't on the same page as you. For years now you've been putting her off, ignoring her or only flirting with her when you want something-" he pointed at his best friend as Sherlock tried to make excuses "-and don't say you didn't because we both know it's true. You've spent so long letting her know that the two of you are never going to happen that now it's not even going to occur to her that that's what you're doing." John continued. "And if it does, she won't believe it's the truth. She'll think you're just having her on."

"And I fix this, how?"

John shrugged. "You're going to need to undo all the work you've done. Make her believe that you like her. And, forget subtle, Sherlock, you're going to need to be obvious."

Sherlock huffed in frustration. "How much more obvious could I have made it?"

"Next time," John suggested, "try taking  _her_  coffee."

Sherlock considered that. It was doable. It wasn't too far outside his comfort zone and it would mean that Molly would be both pleased and grateful. Yes, that would do quite nicely.

Someone had once mentioned to Sherlock that, although manipulation was easy and quite fun, it wasn't a very nice thing to do. However Sherlock had stopped listening after 'easy and quite fun' and was therefore inclined to use manipulation whenever it suited him.

Which was a lot.

"Now on to the important parts," John sighed. "Compliments: or how not to be called a creepy bastard."

"I thought I was doing quite well in that regard."

John stared at him. "She assumed you were high."

"Well, yes, but-"

"Or brain damaged."

Sherlock scowled. "Obviously my technique-"

"Is crap," John smiled widely.

"Then what do you suggest?"

"For a start avoid any and all references to her weight. Seriously. I can't stress that enough. Never say anything is too big or too small. If she looks tired, pale, flushed or annoyed say nothing. Unless you can  _honestly_  say that she looks pretty say nothing about her outfit. Or her hair. Oh and complimenting her dissection technique is just creepy."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Anything else?"

"Women can smell insincerity a mile away. Basically if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

Privately John wished that Sherlock lived by this rule. It would make the flat a lot quieter.

"Then how am I supposed to gain her affection?"

"By finding mutual interests and engaging her in conversation in order to get to know each other."

"Dull!" Sherlock threw himself on the sofa. "Why are there so many rules to this...  _sentiment_  business?" He spat the word out like it tasted of dirt. "Why can't things be like they were before when you could hit a woman over the head with a rock and drag her back to your cave for cooking and procreation?"

John blinked. "Well, you could do that now but it's called assault and I'm pretty sure you'd get arrested."

Sherlock smirked. "Only if you were discovered."

John shuddered and opened up his paper again. "Sometimes, Sherlock, you are really bloody creepy."

 


	7. 7

Chapter 7

Molly wrinkled her nose as the smell from the rotting corpse permeated the room. She hated this part of her job. When she was a child and had watched  _The X Files_ , she had been taken in by the pristine lab and neat corpses that Agent Scully sliced open. She had assumed that all of her 'clients' would be equally clean and freshly dead.

She'd been wrong.

Living and working in central London meant that she not only got her share of homeless deaths but also bodies dredged from the Thames after having been there for weeks. She also got bodies from the council estate and gangland killings from the east side. Track marks, bad hygiene and advanced decomposition were the norm rather than the exceptions and she spent more on lemon juice in one month than most people did in a lifetime.

Lemon juice, as she'd discovered after much experimentation, was sometimes the only way to get 'dead dude' smell out of her hair.

As she finished up John Doe #233/4 all she wanted to do was go home and bathe in the stuff. Maybe she'd even add vodka and call it a party.

She slid Mr. Doe back in his drawer and closed it up, stripping off her gloves and rolling her head back and forth. Trying to both crane her neck to perform her duties and yet hold herself at an angle that didn't include being downwind had given her quite the crick in the neck.

She rubbed at her shoulders, grimacing as she felt the knots of tension along her shoulder blades. A massage would be nice right about now.

Of course, if she were dreaming, a massage by Richard Armitage wouldn't go amiss. She closed her eyes, imagining his dark hair falling into his eyes as he reached over with long fingers, dragging them over her back, his eyes twinkling down at her. He'd give her that half smirk that never failed to curl her toes, lean down to her ear and say-

"Molly, are you quite all right?"

Her eyes shot open and she squeaked, stepping back and banging her head against the open autopsy drawer.

"Ow, ow sonofa-" she bit her lip, her hands rubbing at the back of her head.

Sherlock stood in front of her staring at her like she was mad. She had been so lost in her fantasy that she hadn't even heard him come into the morgue which, considering it was Sherlock, was potentially very stupid.

She winced at the tenderness on the back of her head.

"The brain is a very tender object, despite being encased in the skull. The slightest bang can cause untold damage. Even hitting your head at the wrong angle can be deadly."

She heard him put something down on the table and then he was standing in front of her.

Sherlock was so close that he blocked everything else in the room and his hard body was all she could see. She caught her breath as his unique scent surrounded her. God, it wasn't right that he should smell so good.

He reached up and she jolted, almost hitting her head again.

With a rueful smile, he chided her. "Molly," his voice was deeper than usual, "trust me."

His long fingers gently tilted her head down so that all she could see was the deep blue of his shirt and the edges of his tailored suit jacket. He gently pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and let her hair fall down her back. Then his hands were in her hair, his fingers probing the back of her head, running through her hair and massaging her cranium.

Molly bit her lip, trying desperately not to groan as his feather light touches ignited all sorts of tingling feelings down her spine.

 _I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm so... oh god that feels good._  Molly swallowed hard.

She leaned slightly forwards, her head just about touching the soft cotton of his shirt. From this close she could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in deeply and the soft rumble as he spoke.

"No discernible bumps, Molly. Although there is a slight scar ridge here." He dragged his nail across the back of her head and Molly shivered, her back spasming, causing her to lean momentarily against him.

The sensation of his long, lean body against her forehead was too much and she straightened quickly, his hand falling from her hair as she stumbled away from him. Molly was well aware that her face was flushed.

"I um... uh... fell out of a window as a child." She dredged up a smile. "I was convinced that I was a superhero." She bit her lower lip. "Silly, really."

"Not at all," Sherlock said, stepping back to give her some breathing room. He clenched his hands into fists at his side. "I wished to be a pirate."

The image of little Sherlock with a cutlass and eye-patch roaming the seven seas made her smile. "I think you'd have made a great pirate."

He gave her an inscrutable look and stepped further away.

Molly straightened her coat. "So, what can I do for you today, Sherlock? I've not had anything new, really, in the way of body parts although-"

"Actually," Sherlock cleared his throat and turned around, picking something up off the table. "I have a few experiments of my own to run and so here." He handed her a cup.

A hot steaming full cup of coffee.

"It's coffee." She said.

"Yes."

Molly stared at it. Not quite understanding. Why had he handed her a cup of coffee?

"Milk, one sugar, correct?"

She blinked. "It's for me?"

He beamed at her. "Yes."

"You... you bought me coffee?"

His smile fell slightly. "Yes."

She looked down at the piping hot drink then back up at him. "Why?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Does there need to be a reason?"

Molly bit down on her lip. "The only time I have ever known or heard of you bringing someone a drink was when you attempted to drug John." She held up the coffee. "This experiment you are running, it wouldn't happen to be on me, would it?"

"No." Sherlock's face darkened. "You always make me coffee and I believed that reciprocity would be appreciated. Apparently I was wrong."

"No, no!" Molly sipped at her drink. "It is appreciated. Thank you, Sherlock. It was very thoughtful of you."

And completely unexpected and not a little suspicious.

"I despise small talk," he said seemingly out of nowhere. "I have always found that the banalities of talking about the weather simply to fill the air with nonsense to be tedious in the extreme. I also dislike the inevitable- 'so, how have you been?' talk that two people who have not seen each other for a while are compelled to have. It's mind numbingly dull. In order to see what a person has been up to in your absence all you have to do is observe. Why there is the need for all of this senseless dialogue is beyond me."

"Okay," Molly said slowly.

"I like your hair."

Molly tried very hard not to let her jaw drop as he reached up, stroking two fingers along the curling tendril by her face. She shied away from his hand slightly.

"I think it suits you even more than parting on the side."

"I don't wear it down at work." Molly wondered if he had put something in her coffee after all because this conversation was getting more and more surreal.

"No," he nodded, "I imagine it would get in the way when you are leaning over performing autopsies. Logical. You also don't use much make up. No foundation or cover up. Only occasionally you will use something on your eyes. Whether it's from not having a mother figure to show you how to use it correctly or the desire to be more masculine to fit in with a predominantly male career, you don't tend to wear it."

"No, I-"

"I'm glad," he interrupted. "Make-up is, by its very nature, deceptive, making you see what isn't truly there and hiding what is. It's a mask, Molly. You are too honest to wear a mask. You are not false, not fake and you have a natural appeal that is beyond any paint palette."

Molly just stared at him. "That... that sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Sherlock."

"It was."

"Well... thank you."

Molly had known Sherlock to be mysterious, inscrutable and enigmatic. But this was a level beyond her experience of him. This was... bizarre.

Sherlock only ever complimented people when he needed something or there was something in it for him. He didn't do idle chatter of any kind so his comments about small talk were both redundant and odd. And he never gave people anything, save for a headache, a case of righteous indignation and, most often, the desire to punch him in the face.

So what was going on with the consulting detective?

Sherlock thought that things were going rather well this time, although he was cautiously optimistic rather than arrogantly presumptuous. Apparently, where women were concerned, you couldn't take anything for granted.

But Molly was drinking the coffee he had purchased, they were having a conversation and he'd managed to initiate physical contact.

That was one of the areas that he had been unsure about but, as it turned out, that part had been both easy and pleasurable. He disliked touching on principle, knowing that germs and bacteria were most easily spread by touch and that intrusion upon your person was one of the first signs of over-familiarity. The last thing he needed was more people in his life.

But touching Molly was different. He had enjoyed the tactile sensations of his fingers running through her hair, his fingertips tracing the bumps on her cranium and even learning something new about her from her scars.

Yes, it had been quite the discovery to find that he not only enjoyed touching her but would quite like to continue.

"It occurs to me, Molly, that we have many shared interests. Both interested in solving puzzles. Both smart, professional individuals."

"You're professional?"

"In a manner of speaking," he accepted. "We are both more comfortable in the company of the dead."

Molly was frowning at him. "As much as I'm enjoying this conversation, Sherlock, it is a little well... odd. If you have something that you want to ask me, you should really just do it."

His eyes widened slightly. Ahh. He knew that Molly Hooper was intelligent. Obviously she had realised his interest and was making things easier for him by just coming straight out with it. Perfect. This would make things much easier.

She continued. "I mean, unless you want another head to experiment on. I really did get in trouble for that one. But you really don't have to try to butter me up or flatter me. Honestly, just ask for what you need. I'd prefer it actually." She looked down at her coffee and then placed it on the side. She took a deep breath and laced her fingers together. Sherlock could detect minute tremors in her hands. She was nervous about something, something that she was about to say.

"Molly-"

"No, let me get this out." She took a deep breath again. "You said that when someone wears make-up it's a mask. It's fake. When you want something from me and you know I won't or can't give it to you; you then try flirting or complimenting me. A-and I know you don't mean it. You never mean it. When you tell me that my hair looks nice or comment on my lipstick, I know you're only doing it to get what you want. It's fake. It's false. Basically you're lying in order to manipulate me."

"Mol-"

"No. I mean... I know that's what it is. And it's okay. Well no, it's not okay. There's really no need. I-I don't want to see your mask, Sherlock. It... it hurts that you believe I buy it. I'm not stupid and I'm tired of you treating me as if I am. So please stop it. Stop the fake compliments and the ridiculous attempts at flirting and just ask for what you want. It is so much kinder. Tell me what you want."

Sherlock just stared at her. He knew that Molly Hooper was insecure; he knew that she had self-esteem and body issues; but he hadn't known how little she valued herself and how much he had aided in the development of her low sense of self worth.

All the times he had complimented her to get his own way, she had known that was what he was doing and she allowed it. She allowed him to manipulate her because she was Molly and she would rather hurt a fly than call him on it.

No, she would rather hurt herself. John was right; he really was a monumental bastard at times.

Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling a low level nausea of in his stomach. "Molly Hooper, I may have at times said things in order to persuade you to do things or say things for me. I don't deny that I have manipulated you shamelessly or monopolised your time but I have never said anything that I didn't mean."

"What?" She gave him a baffled yet hurt look.

He stepped closer and reached for her face. She stumbled back and so he dropped his hand back to his side, curling it into a fist.

"You do look well with your hair parted to the side but it looks even better down. It's soft and has a unique colour under mortuary lights. It doesn't need dressing or hairspray or big silver bows which only detract from the natural highlights. Your hair is beautiful. You may have a small mouth and breasts and you may dress like a toddler, but it suits you. A perfect rosebud mouth and a gentle sloping chest hidden under layers of softness. You don't need slinky black dresses or make up or a push up bra. You are who you are, Molly. I mean every word, but it doesn't follow that those words are negative."

Molly opened and closed her mouth, having no idea what to say to that.

Sherlock leaned closer and she was too stunned to move as he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Your body mass ratio is very pleasing."

He pulled away and gave her a small smile. "I don't think I'll do any experiments today."

Molly just gaped as he swung around, his Belstaff twirling behind him like a cape. She lifted a hand to her cheek, feeling the phantom press of his lips there.

Sherlock didn't speak again until he was outside and then his voice filtered back into her. "I do think you should leave your hair down."

It wasn't until the door closed behind him that she realised he still had her hair tie.

* * *


	8. 8

221b Baker Street had its fair share of action. Knife fights, shootings, dead bodies, parts of dead bodies, experiments, fires, and dismemberments, not to mention members of parliament, Her Majesties government and a dominatrix as casual visitors. Yet there was something quite alarming at seeing the main occupants engaged in a staring match with neither willing to give in.

John knew he could wait this out. He'd been around Sherlock long enough to know that the man needed to talk to someone and sooner or later he would be unable to take the silence and babble his problem like a child with a secret.

Sherlock was equally certain that John would be the first one to crack. John wanted to know what had transpired between himself and Molly and would be the one to start his questions. Really the man had no patience whatsoever. None. Zero. Why, he was probably fighting back words now. He was wriggling inside with the need to know, the desire to hear it all and offer his own brand of advice; he had to be desperate. It was just a matter of time. Seconds really. Any minute-

"Honestly, John, if you wish to know how it went, just ask."

John beamed. Knew it.

Sherlock scowled at the look of triumph on John's face. He waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. Well done."

"Sorry, mate, couldn't resist. So how did it go?"

"You know," Sherlock leaned forwards so his elbows were resting on his knees. "I'm not entirely sure."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Sherlock didn't answer, staring at his hands, deep in thought.

John shifted on his chair. "Well, I take it you went with the formula. Introduction, small talk, compliment... an actual compliment, joke, followed by casual touch then asking for a date?"

"I skipped the joke part but the rest of it was going swimmingly until she decided that I was merely trying to gain access to something- probably a head- and she informed me that whatever I wanted I could have without manipulations or insincere flattery."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"I told her that my flattery wasn't insincere, that I meant every word."

John's face lit up. "And then?"

"I left."

"Oh Sherlock!" John sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his hands. "Women are particularly susceptible at that point. When you're bringing honesty and compliments to the table they are basically putty in your hands and you... you... dropped it! Please at least tell me you gave her soulful eyes and stole a kiss?"

Sherlock thought of the soft press of his lips against her cheek. Her skin was so warm and smooth. He had never thought about the potential pleasures of kissing a woman. The taste of her, the sensation of being so very close to another human being, one who adored you and wanted all that you had to give. It was a heady feeling and he could feel himself react.

Obviously it was evident on his face as well.

John scoffed, "Well, at least you got that part right. Honestly after you said that you meant every word you should have leaned in close and apologised for ever making her doubt herself. Then you should have told her that you wished you could take it back but the world doesn't work like that and then added that you'd like to make amends. Then you pull her into your arms, kiss her like she's the last woman on earth, and ask her out. She melts at your feet."

Sherlock sneered. "Women don't actually fall for that, John."

"There's a whole genre of books that prove you wrong, Sherlock, it's called Chick-Lit." He gave a laugh. "Take it from me: they don't call me 'Three Continents Watson' for nothing."

"I thought gentlemen didn't kiss and tell."

"There are no gentlemen here. I was a soldier and you are an arse."

"Yes, thank you, John," Sherlock was getting annoyed. "Perhaps I'd do better asking for someone else's advice."

"Like who? Mycroft?"

Despite their general aggravation with each other they couldn't help but share a snigger at the very thought of asking Mycroft for relationship advice. It would be a bit like asking a nudist for fashion tips. 'Go without' would be the general consensus and that would be useless.

No, it seemed that John was still the best bet for a satisfactory outcome and it had become more and more important that he achieve his aims.

Somewhere in the past few months it had become imperative that he win over Molly Hooper. Imperative, not only for his own peace of mind, but also for his happiness. Molly Hooper made him happy and he refused to give up on gaining the very thing that brought him contentment.

Not only was she bright, attractive, sweet, kind and accomplished, she was also a challenge. She was different from every assumption he'd initially made about her. She seemed to be shy and then she wasn't; she appeared naive but wasn't; and she was unusual and funny and sarcastic and quite bewildering. He had been thinking about her behaviour for months and she still intrigued him.

Molly Hooper was not boring and that was the highest compliment he could pay anyone.

He wanted her. If she were a case she'd be a 9.

Of course, if she were a case, he would be giving it his all, trying every avenue to reach his goal; he'd be trying all sources and resources. Which meant one thing.

"John, pass me my phone."

John looked from the phone on the table to Sherlock's hand only inches away from it. "It's right there."

Sherlock just looked at him.

John sighed and passed him the phone before lurching to his feet to make a cup of tea muttering wildly. "Not your bloody butler!"

Sherlock smirked as his friend walked away.

He scrolled down his- admittedly small- list of contacts and pressed the call button.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

"Hello, Greg."

There was a moment's pause. "Sherlock? Oh bloody hell, what have you gone and done now?"

"Why would you assume that?"

He could almost hear Lestrade roll his eyes on the other end of the phone. "Basic deduction, Sherlock. You're calling not texting, there isn't a case that I'm aware of and you called me Greg. You want something. You're being nice which means it's something big. You used my name which means it's something you need me sweet for. Ergo, you've screwed something up."

"Excellent deduction, Detective, really brilliant."

"Yeah well," Lestrade sniffed with satisfaction. "I am an inspector."

"Completely wrong, of course. But well-reasoned."

Lestrade sighed. "What is it?"

"You're married."

"Sometimes."

"How did you do it?"

"Got drunk and made bad life choices, why?"

"Hypothetically if you wished to reconcile with your cheating ex-wife, not that I'd advise it mind you, she is still seeing the judo instructor, how would you go about it?"

"Is this for a case?" His voice was angry and Sherlock wondered if he'd managed to say something a bit not good.

Honestly, talking to people was a veritable minefield sometimes. No wonder there were so many murders.

"Not a case, no. Call it curiosity."

There was a moment's silence from the other end of the line. "Nope. Gonna have to give me more than that. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do sentimental claptrap or human emotions. So what gives? You got a bet on with John?"

"No. It's a personal matter."

"You don't have personal matters."

"I might."

"You don't. Now if it isn't important, Sherlock, I'm hanging up. I've got important  _actual_  work to do."

"No you don't. You're currently at your office desk, sharpening pencils and eating a donut- glazed with sprinkles- while avoiding the departmental briefing and pretending to do paperwork."

More silence. "How did you know about the sprinkles?"

"Trace amounts of coloured sugar pigment on your desk."

Lestrade muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. "Fine, what do you want to know?"

"If you have treated a woman badly and wish to make amends, how would you go about it?"

"Jewellery usually."

"No, Molly doesn't wear jewellery."

"Molly? As in Molly Hooper, pathologist Molly?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth for letting that slip. "Yes."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are not going to kiss up to that sweet girl just to get your own way. She's been head over heels for you for ages. If she's finally become immune to you then I say good on her. She can do way better. Leave the poor girl alone."

"Doctor Molly Hooper isn't a  _girl_. She is a woman of remarkable intelligence. While I agree that she can do better, as you have already pointed out, she hasn't wanted better. Besides my motivations are not as self-serving as that."

"Oh no?"

"No."

Obviously there was something in Sherlock's tone that got across his sincerity. Maybe it was the intractability, maybe it was honesty, but most likely it was the sheer irritation that everyone kept questioning his motives.

Really, he wasn't a bloody machine.

"What, really?"

"Yes."

" _Really_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Now if you would suspend your disbelief and actually be of assistance, I'd appreciate it."

"Say please."

"Lestrade!"

The man on the other end chuckled. "Oh all right, Sherlock, keep your shirt on. I was just teasing. You have any idea how long I've been waiting for ammunition like this? Bloody ages!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and wondered if it had ever actually occurred to Lestrade that Sherlock was one of the few men that could kill someone and not only would no one ever find the body but no one would ever know how he did it. Sherlock could literally get away with murder.

And the idea was looking more and more appealing by the moment.

Of course, the notion had now occurred to Lestrade but somehow the benefits of finally getting one over on Sherlock vastly outweighed the potential risk of being killed. After all, if he were dead, who would bring Sherlock his interesting cases?

"Okay, Sherlock. If you bollocksed it up as much as I assume you have, then she's probably pretty pissed at you. When a woman is that mad, little stuff is pointless. You have to go for the big guns. I call 'em the three G's; Gifts, grovelling and gestures. The grovelling bit is easy. Turn up at her place, or hotel or wherever- for god's sake don't do it when she's at work- tell her how wrong you were- even if you weren't- how sorry you are- even if you're not- and how much you miss her. You need her in your life. Your life isn't worth living without her. She's the best thing that ever happened to you and you were a fool to let her go, or ignore her. Then you've got the gesture. Offer to do whatever she needs to make her believe you. Take her to Paris. Swear off all other women. Turn bloody vegan and take up Zumba. Whatever it takes you'll do it for her. And, I cannot emphasize this enough, take a gift. Chocolate, flowers, jewellery, anything. For one it makes it seem like you've been giving this some thought and for another, it makes it much harder to throw you out if you've given her something."

"Gifts, grovel and gestures?"

"Yep," Lestrade seemed pleased with his little diatribe. "Works for me every time. Well, except for the one time I did it drunk. That didn't go down so well."

Sherlock considered his words. For all intents and purposes Lestrade was the foremost authority of reconciliation. After all, he and his wife were still together. Occasionally.

But there were a few problems. Sherlock did not grovel. He was also rubbish at grand gestures and he had no idea what to buy Molly for a gift.

Other than that it was perfectly sound advice.

"Right. Thank you, Lestrade."

"You're welcome, Sherlock. And you will let me know how it goes?"

"No." Sherlock hung up and tossed his phone onto the table. John placed his tea in front of him.

"So was Greg useful?"

"Perhaps. He suggested grovelling with gifts."

John sniffed. "Which is different to what I suggested how?"

Sherlock ignored him. He wasn't doing it to be deliberately rude but sometimes when John was speaking all he heard was "blah blah blah".

Although, to be fair, it wasn't just John.

Everybody talked far too slowly and about things that didn't interest him at all. Sometimes it was just too exhausting to pretend to be interested in what people were saying. He often wished they came with a remote control so he could fast forward to the interesting bits.

Of course, in Anderson's case, an off button would be useful as well.

But what to do about Molly? He wanted her but did he want her enough to grovel for her? To debase and demean himself? Would Molly expect that of him? Would she want it? But could he live with it if he never gave it a chance? What about if someone else came in and swept Molly off her feet and it wasn't someone he could chase away? There had to be some strong-minded men left in London who wouldn't be put off by a stranger being able to tell them their own life story.

If Molly stopped loving him, stopped caring for him, could he stand it? Her recent coolness towards him was already driving him to distraction, if she really actually got over him would he be able to deal with it?

"So what are you going to do then, Sherlock?" John's voice penetrated his thoughts.

The answer was clear. It was uncomfortable and would probably promise to be painful but it was clear.

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Apparently, John, I'm in need of grovelling lessons."

* * *


	9. 9

Chapter 9

Molly Hooper was extremely confused. Since her great realisation that Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a manipulative jerk-face, who was only around her for what he could get out of her, she had tried to wean herself off caring for him.

Only for him to suddenly turn into a totally different person.

The man who had been in her morgue last week, who touched her hair, complimented her so sweetly and kissed her cheek, was a far cry from the arrogant ass-hat that he had been before. If she wasn't almost convinced that humans were too boring for aliens to bother with, then she would be wondering about alien possession.

As it was, Sherlock had been exhibiting traits of an actual human being and it was very confusing. Maybe he was trying some sort of experiment. Or new drug.

She shook her head. She really wasn't being fair to him. Maybe he had realised that he was being a prat and was eager to make amends.

Molly sniggered. She couldn't even think of that with a straight face.

Maybe he had noticed her cool behaviour towards him and he thought he was in danger of losing lab privileges? That made far more sense than anything else. Heaven knows he could be charming when he set his mind to it.

She frowned as she thought again of last week's behaviour. His odd compliments and insults and his close proximity and touching had all been way  _too_  close for comfort. She had tried to put it out of her mind but it was impossible. The feel of him so near, his breath against her cheek as he pressed a kiss there. It still made her insides shake and her palms sweat. But she hadn't turned into a pile of goo at his feet, nor had she giggled and fussed. She had been stern, resolute and had told him she wasn't to be manipulated and his flattery was getting him nowhere.

She was so proud of herself for that she had rewarded herself with chocolate cake.

But since he'd stolen her hair tie, he hadn't been back in and she was left wondering exactly what had happened.

Had the experiment come to an end? Had he decided it wasn't worth it? Was he biding his time?

Or was she over thinking this and he'd just grown bored?

She slumped in her chair and closed her eyes with a groan. She might be trying to get over him, but not thinking of him was clearly not going to happen.

Or was that a double negative?

Wondering whether internally correcting your own grammar was one of the signs of madness, Molly suddenly realised that her inner editor sounded remarkably like a certain consulting detective.

She groaned even louder and banged her head against the back of the sofa, startling Toby who scampered under the kitchen table, mewing irately at her.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Right; she wasn't going to spend any more of this evening thinking about his consulting sexiness. She was going to stick in that frozen lasagne, stick on a movie and perv over Hugh Jackman for a while.

She headed for the freezer only to be stopped by a knock on her door.

Both she and Toby stared at it.

Her family were all dead, her friends were not the type to call late at night, she had no boyfriend, no stalker, Jehovah's Witness came by last month and she was fully paid up with rent.

She stepped towards the door. "Who is it?"

"Sherlock."

She stumbled towards the door and peered through the peephole. She pulled away. Blinked. And looked again.

Yep, that was Sherlock. She'd recognize him anywhere.

Tall man. Check.

Belstaff coat. Check.

Sexy dark tousled curls. Check.

Big bunch of orchids.

...

Huh.

Molly opened the door very gingerly.

He gave her a big smile, almost beaming over the large bouquet.

"Hello, Molly."

"Sherlock?" Molly's brow wrinkled as she tried to take in what she was seeing. There had to be some explanation for why Sherlock Holmes was standing at her door after hours holding a very large bunch of flowers.

He shifted from one foot to the other in nervousness. Well, that would be what she would call it if it were anyone else.

Anyone other than Sherlock.

She stared down at the flowers and then back up to him. "Everything... all right?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. The smile vanished and he pushed past her into her flat and stalked over to the table, slamming the flowers on top of it.

Molly winced as some of the petals floated to the floor. Really, that was no way to treat orchids.

"No, everything is not all right."

Sherlock was obviously frustrated. His hair had the look of wildness, like he had been running his fingers through it. His eyes were glossy and had an odd shine to them; a sort of fervent insanity known only by the truly brilliant. It was that spark that suggested he was either about to have a breakthrough, or a breakdown. Molly really wasn't sure which and as she stared at the man it occurred to her that she probably wouldn't be able to tell either way. He was tall, lean, gorgeous and, quite possibly, mad.

"Okay." Molly closed the door and left the safety of a quick exit to stand closer to the possibly deranged detective. She lowered her voice to a calming tone designed to soothe a savage beast. "Is there anything I can help you with, Sherlock?"

"No," he glared at her and then shook his head. "I mean yes. Stop assuming that I am mentally unhinged." He undid his buttons, wrenched off his coat and threw it on the back of the sofa like he was making a statement.

Molly nodded. Not insane. Sure. (This sarcasm was brought to you by Pathologist Ltd. A direct subsidiary of Step Away From The Psycho Productions.)

Molly took a step back.

Sherlock simply stared at her as if daring her to say anything. "I am perfectly sound of mind."

"Uh huh."

"I am, however, quite frustrated by your apparent lack of understanding. My god, I thought Anderson was slow!"

"Hey!" Molly had met Anderson and knew that it wasn't a particularly nice comparison.

"I have attempted to make the situation clear to you but it seems that my attentions have been misunderstood and you are confounded by my machinations."

Molly blinked. "Maybe because you use the word 'machinations' in general conversations."

Sherlock glared at her.

"Just saying."

"You have changed, Molly Hooper. Not three months ago you were barely able to string words into sentences around me, you blushed whenever I sat too close and spent the majority of our time together fantasizing about me. Then, just when I am ready to reciprocate, you decide that you don't want me."

Molly was reasonably sure that she wasn't the one going mad, still she couldn't have possibly heard what she  _thought_  she'd heard.

"What?"

"I came to the conclusion a few months ago that I have affection for you. Sentiment," he all but sneered, "I wish to move on in our relationship."

Molly felt faint. "We have a relationship?"

"We could have if you weren't so deliberately obtuse."

So this was what going mad felt like. She had always wondered. Obviously she had been working too hard and was experiencing a long overdue psychotic break.

But even in her psychotic haze, Molly felt stirrings of irritation at his tone. He sounded like a sulky child. "For your information, Sherlock, insulting me? Not going to help." She shook her head. "What made you come to this realisation?"

"You... intrigue me. You spend your days seeing the worst that humankind has done to one another, yet you are endlessly naive and optimistic. You have no compunction in breaking up with a mass murderer yet accede to my every demand. Despite your horrendous dress sense, you are an attractive woman."

Molly opened her mouth, but closed it again; her brain was blank.

"Even sans makeup and wielding a scalpel, you are the most compelling woman I have ever met and your knowledge of the human body is unparalleled."

Molly cleared her throat, knowing full well that a blush was making its way steadily up her cheeks. "You know, Sherlock, those are also excellent credentials for a serial killer."

Sherlock's eyes brightened. "Are you a serial killer?" The tone of his voice made it clear that he found the idea more than appealing.

"No."

He sighed. "Shame really. I think you'd be good at it."

Molly was oddly flattered by the remark. After all, Sherlock was in the business of killers and if he thought she'd be a good one then maybe she could... _not_  do that.

Molly mentally slapped herself. That would be wrong.

'Murderer' was not a viable career option unless you were of a particular Italian persuasion.

"Wh-what is it that you want from me?"

"I wish to have coffee with you and for neither of us to make it. A date. I wish for us to date."

Molly bit down on her lip. "Sherlock, you said there have been misunderstandings but there haven't. I mean, I fancied you for so long and although you flirted with me, it was only ever to get something, you never meant it. How do I know that you're not just, I don't know, trying to manipulate me to get more access or something?"

"I suppose this would be the point where grovelling comes in and I apologise for all of the horrid things I have said about you; all of the deductions that you have taken as insults."

Molly frowned. "I didn't take them as insults, Sherlock, they  _were_  insults. You are always saying things like that and they are designed to hurt. Always. Don't apologise if you don't mean it because then it means nothing."

Sherlock sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "Apparently grovelling isn't one of my strengths." He licked his lips and looked straight at her. "But I do apologise, sincerely, Molly. I don't like it when you are hurt; it was never my intention to do so. The notion that I have injured you in any way makes me... uncomfortable."

He sighed heavily before continuing. "I am not sentimental and do not wax poetic about feelings and emotions. I don't understand them, nor have I felt any need for them in my life. However I have come to the conclusion that my life would not be quite so... full if you were not there. Not in the same way were John missing but nonetheless equally as upsetting. You are on my mind constantly. I spend inordinate amounts of time contemplating things you have said or things you have done. It interferes with my productivity and my sleep and somehow I don't seem to mind. These... feelings. I- It's like drugs."

"Ex _cuse_  me?"

"No sensible person wants this, its effects are curious, uncomfortable and wide reaching and it completely distorts reality. Yet I can't help but crave it. Crave you. I fear that thinking about you, Molly Hooper, has become an addiction."

"Oh." Molly breathed the word. She had fantasized about Sherlock one day admitting that he had feelings for her but this... this was beyond anything that she had ever dreamed.

Unless she was dreaming. This whole scenario had a bizarrely dreamlike quality to it. She cocked her head, leaned over and pinched Sherlock.

"Ow!"

Her eyes widened as he scowled, rubbing his arm. "Was that quite necessary?"

"Sorry, I assumed I was dreaming."

"If that is the case, you are supposed to pinch  _yourself_."

"But that would hurt."

He opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. She had a point.

"So, you're serious. About wanting to be with me?"

"Once again, Molly, yes. Although I have to say that your insistence that I am either mentally unhinged or manipulating you is exceedingly unflattering. I am a human being, albeit an extraordinary one."

"You can be very mean."

"Yes, I can and, if we are being honest, that probably won't change too much. Although I will try."

"Then why should I take the chance?"

He reached over and cupped her chin and his gaze met hers and held. His voice deepened and all but rumbled through her as he answered. "Because I  _am_  sorry, Molly Hooper and I  _want_  you."

"Ah..." She cleared her throat as her knees turned to jelly. "I-I'm not sure." But even as she said it, Molly knew that she was going to do this. She was going to accept Sherlock Holmes as her  _boyfriend_. She was going to date him and kiss him and... she was feeling slightly dizzy.

There was obviously something about her manner that openly stated her intentions because Sherlock relaxed. No longer did he seem uncertain or apprehensive. He knew that she was going to say yes and his arrogance came back in full force. It was probably a good thing she found it sexy.

"Oh, I'm sure I could make it worth your while," he smirked at her.

Molly squeaked. That conjured up some very X-rated fantasies. Riding crops and fingers in his hair and oh so very many naughty things. She flushed a brighter red as he moved closer.

She took a step back, her heel almost catching on the rug, as he prowled towards her, a swagger in his walk like the King of the Jungle. He reached for her, pulling her body flush against his.

Molly's breath caught at his proximity, those dark eyes flitting over her face, taking in every detail and filing it away.

He ducked his head so that his lips were just a hairsbreadth away from hers.

"Say yes, Molly."

She shuddered as his hot breath swept over her mouth. "S-S-Sherlock?"

His hand ran up and down her spine, only to settle on her hip. "Say yes."

"Y-y-"

"Good enough," he said cutting off her words with his mouth.

Molly had been kissed, of course she had. Boyfriends at school, at uni, medical school, and several from work meant that her lips were quite accustomed to being kissed.

But not massaged, coaxed apart by silken lips and tiny nips. She had felt the invasive warmth of a sweep across her teeth and the tangling of tongues but not like this. They had never made her knees feel weak and her lower back tingle. Her hands trailed of their own accord up to his collar, gripping his shirt before driving into his hair.

God, it was even softer than she had imagined, the bouncy curls sliding under her fingertips like satin.

Then his hands were on her back, twirling her around and moving forwards and suddenly she was pressed against the wall, his hands trapping her, caging her in as he continued his assault against her senses.

He was pressed full length against her, dragging more and more kisses out of her, one hand against the wall and the other in her hair, angling her head to meet his fervent mouth.

She could have kissed him forever, and really wouldn't have minded if he never stopped but he pulled back, resting his head against hers as he fought for breath.

"I brought orchids," he whispered hoarsely.

"My favourite."

"I know. I grovelled."

"Very well," Molly panted as he nipped at her neck.

"I will do whatever you want me to."

Somebody whimpered and Molly was sure it was her. "Okay."

He ducked back in for another kiss, drawing it out until her legs were shaking, the wall the only thing holding her up. Kissing Sherlock was exactly as she had hoped and more than she had dreamed. It was intense and arousing and made everything else just fade away until all she could feel was him. Nothing mattered but the feel of his lips on hers, the feel of him melting into her and the insistent pulse starting low down in her belly.

Like everything else he did, his kisses were fantastic. She felt him tug her hair, pulling her head back as his lips left hers, travelling down her throat. The little nips were driving her crazy.

If she didn't stop him then she was going to embarrass herself right there against the wall. Molly pushed him back slightly.

"Wow," she breathed.

Sherlock lowered his forehead to hers, resting it gently against her skin, as he panted.

"I have come to the realisation that I really, really want to do that again," he said raggedly. "Many many times, for as long as you'll let me. What do you think?"

What did she think? What did she  _think_? Thinking was overrated; especially when she had the man of her dreams within dragging distance of her bedroom.

Molly smiled and dug her fingers into his hair, pulling him back in for another kiss. "I think that  _that_ , Sherlock Holmes, is a truly great realisation."

Finis.

* * *


End file.
